The Feathers
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: While wandering in the woods of her local park, Sarah finds an unusual bread-crumb trail of feathers. At first, it's just a coincidence. After a while Sarah knows it's got to be something of a higher power at work…say, a Fae King? Issued a challenge, she has no other choice but to see it through. A story in 8 parts.
1. Into the Woods: Raven

**The Feathers**

While wandering in the woods of her local park, Sarah finds an unusual bread-crumb trail of feathers. At first, it's just a coincidence. After a while Sarah knows it's got to be something of a higher power at work…say, a Fae King?

I had issues pinning down her age, so I assumed that at 15 she was a freshman, or about to enter the 10th grade, and at this point in time is a sophomore in college.

A story in eight parts.

Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth!

**Into the Woods **

Upon my arrival to the park, I am surprised to find it nearly vacant. I look up and see the dark iron clouds rolling. Naturally my absent-mindedness had allowed me to miss this particular detail. I won't deny it; I am distracted today. Not even a gloriously cheerful Toby can pull me into focus, which is probably why Karen sent me out here after putting him down for a nap.

"Go," She urged. "You've been working so hard this semester, and it's your break. You don't need to spend all of it babysitting. Go to the park. You used to love it there."

I went. And here I am, sitting in the abandoned swings. The rain clouds are almost fortunate, as under better weather the playsets would be swarming with kids. If I took Toby, there simply wouldn't be a chance of me getting on them-I'd be pushing him "all the way to the sky, Sawah!" Not that I mind in the least. I really enjoy playing with my little brother. However, it's easy to get wistful over things like swings and playgrounds.

Two years out of high school, and I couldn't let go of this place. For almost five years I've had a love-hate sort of appreciation for the park; in distress it comforts me, but otherwise it just serves as a reminder. My toys might be in Karen's cobwebby attic, my more childish desires diminished with age. But the memories are more difficult to shove away-they're part of me. They are the reason I'm the Sarah I am today.

The Sarah who straighten up to earn straight "A"s through her next three years. The same Sarah who realized she had a dream of writing, of art. The Sarah who finally decided to stop playing in the theater, and instead brave her first art class. The Sarah who became a national-award-winning essayist after winning three essay competitions over the course of those three years. The Sarah who dutifully applied to eight schools, was accepted into all of them, then attended the arts academy just over fifty miles from home. The Sarah who dated, but couldn't seem to find a match. The Sarah who loathed dancing and hated masks. That Sarah.

The Sarah who was currently working on her first novel….

In my spare time I had outlined, then began, a working story. It was, sadly, a small reflection of the events that shook me out of childhood, though I had not indeed it to be so. There is a fairy king, a spitfire young heroine, and a series of tasks the girl must perform for her freedom. A _Scarborough Faire_, if you will. The characterization of the villainous fairy king has weighed heavily on my mind. He lacked layers. I didn't want to present someone so 2-D, I longed for realism and depth.

All in all, the story was otherwise fine. I had began discussions with a potential agent, who had agreed to sponsor me. They had also agreed that the villain, King Ara, need some "tweaking."

My legs pump up and down with motion of the heavy chains I cling to. The rubber seat is tight against my rear, uncomfortable in a way I don't recall from the many afternoons spent in these seats. But it isn't uncomfortable enough for me to want to leave. Not yet.

A squawking startles my musing. I look up from the wood chips. Another cry sounds-_"CRAWKAWKA!" _

**Raven-**_**Darkness, Fear**_

I recognize the squall of a disgruntled crow. It comes from the woods. Between layers of branches, I can just make out a hopping, fat black bird. Without a thought, I jump out of the swing and stalk toward the sound. The creature hops from its perch. Another loud squawk.

Raven, crow, black bird. It makes no difference, truly. Though, I have heard crows to be intelligent above all other avian creatures, their reputation for irritating habits and overwhelming numbers outweighs this. Regardless, the symbolism strikes me-black birds always symbolize death, or ill-natured events soon to come.

"_And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting_

_On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;  
>And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,<br>And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;  
>And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor<br>Shall be lifted - nevermore!"_

Poe's poem was the very epitome of the creature's symbolic coming. I shiver, recalling the imposing oil rendition of the scene my English and Lit teacher had keep behind his desk in the duration of our Goth studies. A ruby-eyed bird, glowering from the pale bust above the threshold.

For whatever reason, I feel the need to follow as the crow dives into the brush. Compelled by an unanswering force, my feet fall into a jog. I crash into the line of trees, branches, and bush to follow a cawing. Into the woods, my whole world darkens. A dash of black crosses my vision. _Left! No, now right! Keep straight ahead! Yes, that's the way. Now…duck! _

I do not pay the slightest attention to the whips of branches and brown leaves, nor do I feel the sting with each strike, until I slow. The bird has completely disappeared. I cannot even hear shrieking.

Running the back of my hand across my forehead and cheek, I am shocked to find it smeared with a sanguine liquid that can only be blood. I tenderly trace the expanse of flesh, awaiting the needling pain. Indeed, I discover a long cut running from my temple to my jaw. Marveling at the length, my hands reach for my cell. I can call my father. He can pick me up, see if I need real medical attention.

My hands pull away from my pockets. I left my phone on my desk, in my room. Karen told me I needed peace, so I had heeded her advice. After all, what sort of trouble could I get in at the park?

I feel the slash again. Wince. Ow. Okay, so this might be considered "trouble." Was I really so distracted by a _bird _I could not attend to my own physical well-being?

From ahead, I hear a distant cry. My elusive raven calling me. Once again, I am ignoring the pain to surge forward.

Yet my path is blocked. A single raven-coloured quill waits, lying across a parchment scroll. Innocent as it appears, I am wary. I tentatively take up the scroll, tucking the feather behind one ear.

"_For the dreams that you so long to seek_

_You have not far to reach,_

_Follow ye the downy trail,_

_Lest you more prone to passionate fail_

_In that which you dreamily desire._

_Eight you are to find,_

_Careful now, lest you be blind,_

_Seven of a kind are to find you,_

_And to each, yourself be true._

_So, come now to find your fate_

_And let desires be sate—_

_Follow the downy trail beyond_

_For the life which you ought be fond."_

I stare at the long, curled script, uncomprehending. Dreams? "Downy Trail?" What sort of poetic madness is this? Bad poetic madness, at that. The rhymes barely sound together….

I finger the corners of the paper. It is expensive, written on with a loose hand. The ink is pooled in a manner suggesting the use of a fountain pen. Using the pads of my fingers, I trace the letters, feeling the upraised ink with pleasure. Old-fashioned the method may be, it isn't subtle. Whatever the poem's interpretation means, the clearest message can be easily assumed; someone sought my attention.

_Downy Trail…._

"Downy" as in feathers? Down, as in the down of a duck? Or any other bird?

Follow the feather path?

_Seven of a kind…_

Seven different kinds of feathers? From seven different birds? I'd had an Aves class for a biology requirement. I can recognize different species and breeds from the area, but even so the idea of finding a legitimate path is ludicrous.

What sort of insane quest is this?

"Crazy," I say aloud. "Hundreds of birds live here. To find a trail of feather wouldn't be so hard. Someone is sending me on a wild goose chase."

"_Pun intended?"_

I jump at the voice, for it is not my own.

"No," I say slowly. "Not at all."

"_What harm can come from it?"_

To the air surrounding me, I snap. "I do not care to find out. Farewell."

With that being said, I turn on my heels to march out of the wood. Or, at least eastward. That's where the lake sat. I could make it to the bridge from the lake, then the road, then hopefully home. Touching my face, I pray the wound doesn't bleed further; I would hate to scare Karen over a scratch. Though, judging from its current texture, the blood is clotting and beginning to scab over.

Thrashing through the undergrowth I eventually make my way to openness and light (for there is still light, regardless of the clouds that rumble above). Just as I had hoped, I was on the banks of the man-made lake. With a relived sigh, I exit the woods. Safe. Not a creature in sight. Merely rolling clouds, threatening downpour.

"A black bird. A symbol of misfortune." I say, to one person in particular. For if it is him, he must surely be watching. "Do you intend to curse me? Or frighten me? There are better ways. After all, it's merely a bird."

I cross the shorn grass at an unsteady pace. Not being a runner, the tumble through the brush has take breath from me. Another sigh—this time of pain. Hopefully the walk would be a distracting one.

Distraction does come, and soon. I catch it from the corner of my eye. Upon seeing it, I am once again drawn by some unknowable force. Approaching the water's edge, I ignore the mud to watch the loveliness that sits on the mirrored surface.


	2. Swan and Peacock

**Swan-**_**Viciousness in Beauty**_

Floating elegantly in the middle of the lake sits a spotless white swan. Neck curving like smoke from a candle just blown out, it moves gracefully across the sheen of glasslike water, toward the bank where I stand, almost ankles-deep in mud. I feel ashamed to be standing before such a beauteous thing in such a wretched state, until I remember that it's just a bird. An over-sized duck, really. What does it care for muddy hemlines and soiled sneakers?

I recognize him—one of a gaggle that has resided here long before I was born. They lived among ducks and geese as residence of the park. As the prettiest, they were fed well, until visitors realized how mean they were. Aside from the playsets, they were a big attraction for the kids. My father has a framed photo of me around three years old, dressed in overalls and in pigtails, leaning from a rock over the water to sprinkle bread crumbles for a gathering of ducks, geese, and majestic swans. It sits in his office. All of his co-workers remark upon it whenever I stop by nowadays, asking where the pigtailed little girl has gone. With a forced smile, I usually shrug off their remarks.

Where had his companions gone? His mate? They do not survive alone well, swans? Are they dead, gone, or merely momentarily departed? Why had he been left behind.

As it nears, I see myself reflected in bright brown eyes. Swans, quite possibly the most violent birds. From history classes, I recall their use in ancient Rome as house guards—basically, Dobermans before Dobermans were conceived.

The bird carefully extracts itself from the water, shaking away beads of liquid with two shivers. Padding toward me, it blinks.

I freeze. Though ten feet from me, I have no doubt the stupid thing could easily catch up were I to run. My breathing halts as I wait for a reaction.

The wings do spread, but no hissing comes. From the scalloped-edged wings, the bird shakes again. They flap wildly, until a single, purely white piece of plumage falls to the mire. Laying among half-decayed leaves and the wastes of nature, it almost glows, angelic.

Without a sound, the bird trails back to the rim of the bank, sliding into the grey-green waters. Straightening with all the grace of a prima ballerina, it floats once more.

For all its grace and beauty, I cannot forget the reputation of the thing.

Beauteous, yet vile and cruel.

"_Sarah, beware. I have been generous up 'til now. I can be cruel."_

Like a swan. Something so very lovely. Yet dangerous. A paradox. A trick. Some thing evolution created for fools to adore. Not truly delicate. Not merely pretty. Strong, and complex, and fierce.

"_I can be cruel."_

Must everything remind me of this infernal man—fairy—thing? It was long ago, long gone, and yet haunts me still.

"Not fair," I murmur to myself. "Damn your notions on fairness. I've earned some peace."

"_But it that what you truly desire?" _

"It's what everyone desires." But the reply sounds weak, even to my ears. So what if everyone else wants it. Do I want peace? Will I settle for that? 0

_"Sarah…Sarah…."_

Fingering the plumage, I wonder. I wonder why the task has been set to gathering feathers. I ponder the possible outcomes. The poem did not detail my ultimate reward. Heck, I don't even know who send the note. Though, I maintain suspicions. There are only so many people I've met who can speak in a person's head, enchant animal to lose their outer layers, and make rhymes so terrible.

This is a childish thing! A fairy tale quest for children! Not something for college sophomores to pursue. Especially considering the unspecific terms.

Even so…two feathers have been found. Five more to go.

**Peacock-**_**Extravagance, Brightness**_

I leave the lake side to follow the sliver of a creek that ran though the park. Often the scene of my play acting, I allow memories to flood me of summer hours spent reciting poetry and fanatical prose along the paced waters. After my time underground, those hours had been given up for more practical activities. I came to the park only for personal refuge after long school days, or to entertain Toby.

Toby does love the park, but his fascination with it cannot match mine. He is content to spend the entire day indoors, while when I was his age I was known to throw a fit if not taken out to the swings, or the bridge, at least once.

It's when I reach the bridge that I see it-

Puffed up in bright excellence, the crown standing straight, the peacock shimmies its lengthy tail. There is no sun, nonetheless the jeweled tones shimmer. I am agape. If anything, this creature is certainly not native.

Strutting royally, the thing moves off the bridge, jumping to one of the supporting posts. It sits, allowing the luxurious tail to fold and rest, like an unused fan at a dress-ball. I approach quietly. Every inch sparkles, or glimmers, or shimmers. So bright is the plumage, I must blink several times before proceeding.

"You are quite out-of-sorts, fellow." The thing preens. I shake my head. "And what are you supposed to represent in this great play? Vanity? Of whom? Or the general immorality of it?"

My Ara, my evil fairy king, ought to be vain. Vanity is a sin, or something like that, right? Even so, it might add dimension. Well, if there is anything I get out of this silly venture, it will be a hearty cure to writer's block. Perhaps today I might find a cure to Ara's lack of depth.

Swaying its long turquoise neck, the peacock seems to hum softly. I tilt my head, following the motions closely with my eyes.

"You are a beautiful thing. It would be hard not to be vain, if one were as lovely as you."

_He_ is perhaps vain. Judging by his elaborate costumes (Feathers, anyone? Leather pants?) it would not be a stretch to say so. Damn assumptions. With silks, brocades, fine leathers, polish boots, heavy jewelry… His hair ought to be evidence enough. I would hate to be the one to dress it…do they even have hair dressers, or stylists, in the fae world? Did he have goblin servants to do such things, or did he simply magic himself that way every morning? Do Goblin Kings even need sleep?

Five years after initially meeting him, and I had never had these questions before. No matter, for I doubt they will ever be answered. In fact, I dearly wish for them never to have a personal response.

"A feather, my friend?" I ask the peacock politely, feeling a little ridiculous. "Beauty so grand ought not be kept to one, but shared with many."

The bird consented to spread its tail once more, letting a single tail feather fall to the wooden beams of the bridge's deck. I scooping it up, cooing gratefully.

**-XXX-**

**Edit: I've had a few reviews saying swans represent loyalty, grace, beauty, protection, etc. **

**To that, I simply have to say: Have you ever met one of these things? They are bitches. That's the simplest way to put it. Beautiful bird-versions of yappy lap dogs. They might "represent" those things according to wikipedia, but the reason they are associated with "protection" is because they are ill-mannered, agressive brats. Trust me, I had enough trips to the duck pond as a kid to know. I am attempting to represent these animals in a at least half-way realistic manner, and my interactions with swans are being reflected thus.**


	3. Blue Jay, Cardinal, and Dove

**Blue Jay, Cardinal, and Dove**

**Hey! Here's numbero tres, hope you enjoy it. I've seen loads of alerts and faves, so maybe, uh, could I get a review, or two? **

**-XXX-**

**Blue Jay—**_**Childish Behavior, Quick Anger**_

With nothing else to do, I trail 'round till I hit the fountain in the center of the park. It's a gleaming memorial, dedicated to the donors who made the creation of the park possible. Surrounded by cherry trees, it is a favourite spot for picnic in the early spring time. By now all blooms, as well as leaves, have long fallen off and died. The pool has been drained. The statues sit, mouths open, bare of flowing liquid that is their testament to life. Without water they seem stale, lifeless. Frozen figures, and nothing more.

A sharp shriek breaks my revery.

Bright blue creature, striped with bars of white and black, hurls itself from the branch directly above me. I have found my next quarry. He flies ahead, bouncing with every pump of his wings. A loud, irritating squeal comes when he opens his beak, long and sharp like the prick of a needle.

As I child I did not mind the prettily blue jays. When I was older, however, I found their noise obnoxious—a screech of an annoyed babe. And watching them at the feeder, from our dining room window, I saw that they were great bullies, forcing other, small bird to go away while they greedily covered the wooden boxes we had placed out for food.

Another cry—

"Oh, please!" I shout upwards, and the bird is silenced. Sky-coloured plumage ruffles in distaste as the jay hold back a cry. The feather waits for me at the base of one tall pine, presumably where the thing landed. I scoop it up. The vane is clumped together, oily. I finger the piece to lie together properly.

Pinpricks of liquid black seek me out. I meet the beady eyes. "You're a tyrant. Nothing but a childish bully. You want people to follow you? Don't squawk so!"

The damned thing screams again. Angry. They all have short fuses. I cry back madly. Silly, true, but I'm not about to let the little bully get the best of me.

Ara was meant to be a tyrant. My character, that is. A heavy-handed brute. A blue jay, effectively. He is loud, quick to anger, like a jay, princely, like a peacock, and vicious as a swan, imposing as a raven. Though, perhaps he could be something more….

Before the thought gets much further, a flash of scarlet skirts across my vision, and I am on the chase once more.

**Cardinal-**_**Passion**_

Once again, I find myself in a wooded section of the park-though this time I'm on one of the legitimate paths, one lined with woodchips and flat stones, benches waiting every quarter of a mile. The woods are cool and dark. I do not mind.

I turn a corner to find my elusive little friend sitting on one of the benches. It peers upward, examining the tree branches ahead. For a second or two I watch it. Then it hops, once, twice, to flit onto the nearest branch.

Bright colours suggest it to be a male. The females are typically dull, a brown-ish red, or grey-ish pink, rather than vivid scarlet. It seems unfair, though that is the way of nature, I suppose. Females are almost always screwed over in some manner. Our lot. A horridly unfair one.

I would want the passionate pigments of a cardinal, if I were a bird. Why should the boys have all the colour?

"Hello," I say.

The bird chirps. I jump back. It hops up, flutters a bit. Almost dramatically. Over responsive? Is that a common trait, in these birds?

"Sorry to bother you, but I've been sent on a task—"A mad one, too, for it has me talking to wildlife in a rational manner. "—and I really need a feather. You know—"

The thing chirped again, bounced, then rocketed itself upward to the branches of a tall cedar.

"Oh."

It's then that I see the small red quill left behind on the bench. Calling up to the speck of red high above my head, I thank the cardinal. This time I don't even get a squeak of "you're welcome."

I am not disappointed. Thus far, this has been the most painless feather to retrieve. And possibly the prettiest. The bloody vane of this plume is hard to ignore. Red, the colour of passion, of love, of feeling. It is a thin feather, narrower than the others. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in pigmentation.

Scarlet is most certainly the colour of a king. Kings are men of action. Men who require passionate feelings. Men who are quick to respond to crisis. It is a bold colour, crisp and warm. Kings, indeed, are men of red. Red for blood. For love, patriotism. For high feelings. Sanguine natures.

The king I know-for I know only one-is without a doubt a man well-fitted with the colour red, though I have only ever seen him in stark neutrals, or cool colours like blue, black, grey. They fit well enough, but coupled with his temperment and hot emotions, I suspect a solid, brash scarlet would do wonders for his intimidation quota. He is in no way a ruthless or bloody king, merely one who runs higher passions. Through a calm demeanor masks these feelings, anyone can see through his actions...though, perhaps not.

Things like this show me he is a man. Not merely a vile character straight out of a storybook. No, there is more depth there.

_How you turn my world You precious thing. _

_You starve and near exhaust me._

_Everything I've done, I've done for you. _

_I move the stars for no one._

**Dove-**_**Gentleness, Kindness**_

A sweet and soft cooing greets my ears. Perched ever-so-lightly sits a mourning dove, slender neck extended. It rustles its matte feathers, the wispy folds of grey reminding me of storm clouds. The dove peers down upon me, cooing again.

I am surprised. "Your sort doesn't tend to like the forest. Fields, that's your habitat."

It doesn't respond to coo again. I do not protest. My heart slows. This is a welcoming break from dashing about the woods.

Doves are to represent peace and calm. Breathing lightly, I relax in the presence of gentleness itself.

"This is a fine gift after the parade he sent me earlier!" I tell the thing. "Does he think it's Mardi Gras? They were all loud, flashy—" I take a step forward. "—nothing like you, sweetie."

I am eye-to-eye with the creature. One finger reaches out, completely out of my conscious thought, to stroke the soft neck. The bird is patient with me, allowing the pads of my fingers to run along the silk carefully.

"You're so lovely," I sigh. "Simple, but that's just it. You don't need metallic feathers five feet long, or a loud voice."

Running the length of the body, my hand comes away with a single, mist-coloured feather.

"Thank you," I whisper. There is another coo—

And then all that is left before me is a branch, swaying up and down, abandoned by weight.

The lesson of this animal is unclear. Am I to see his gentleness, his kind nature? In my time in his maze, I saw nothing but—but brash tyranny!

"_I ask for so little. Just let me rule you, and you can have everything that you want…Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave…"_

But those were not the words of a tyrannical man. Were they? Does the Goblin King possess gentleness? Or merely illusions for the sake of manipulation?

Pondering, I continue my walk. Was I wrong to have assumed the nature of the man? Had I projected a villain onto a blank canvas?

By now, I know it isn't my book I have entered this quest for. It isn't a fictional fairy king I muse upon, but a very real fae one. Though why, I know not. Why now? Here? Did he suspect my uncertainty of the future? Sense my boredom, being caught in the same circle of college-career-marriage-children my peers so relished?

Or am I merely insane?

Had my internal distress and worries over this book somehow worked itself out of my head to become an imaginary incident? Am I so attracted to the idea of being a stolen princess that I've made all of this up?

Madness or not, I am compelled to see the path through to the end. Though the skies are darkened severely, now hard slate ready to burst from pressure at any moment, I neglect all thought of going home. Karen will worry, Toby remain blissfully ignorant, and my father perhaps mildly fearful. Never mind them—I'm toward the end. I must be.

Deeper down the trail I go, listening for a new call. However, it's not a bird, but a massive black oak that catches my eye and calls me from the path.

**-XXX-**

**Reviews would be lovely! I've had a great number of favourites and alerts, but no one has told me what they thought yet! I'm so glad so many of you have liked it thus far (or at least till chapter 2) but I'd be gladder still if I had a couple of reviews. Pretty please?**

**We're near the end! One more to go! **


	4. Owl

**Owl—**_**Wisdom, Battle, Philosophy**_

When I pick this, the final feather, up from where it lays nestled among late fall leaves, I feel a sight tingle in my finger tips, then my hand, my arm, my shoulders and chest…growing until my toes spark with energy. I stare at the single tan plume, streaked with faint white and brown lines. It is simple. Pure. Beautiful. An owl's feather, judging by the shape and texture of the silky strands. I remember from my classes that owl feathers differ from other birds-each strand is specifically aerodynamic, specifically made to create soundless flight.

Owls were, for centuries, a symbol of wisdom. Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom, kept an owl familiar. Merlin, too, supposedly held one under his power. It's the wide, powerful eyes that lead people to a conclusion of supposed intellect. The birds actually have rather small brains. But that's beside the point.

He is wise. Clever, witty, tricky, even. He was almost always five steps ahead of me the entire time, in the Labyrinth. His Labyrinth, after all.

Out of every bird, this is the one that seems to fit him most. Imposing, wise, bringer of war, reverent, beautiful. A thousand words of beautiful. This is Jareth. This is the depth I sought for Ara, for my story. But my words, my words on paper will surely pale to the magnificent of a barn owl's soundless flight.

Owls are not evil. Truly, no creature can be evil. The debate on whether they possess souls is of no matter… they are, simply put, beasts without morals, therefore cannot be immoral. Or evil. Or bad.

What does that make the Goblin King? He is not a beast, but nor is he a man. He is conscious enough for moral thought, but does that bind him to it? My head is spinning with questions.

I glance upward to see a ghostly white bird take off from the oak I stand before to sail between the branches to some place beyond my view. Without a sound, the avian haunt has disappeared.

Hoggle had told me, all the time of the King's familiar form. He warned me, if I were to ever see the ghost-like owl, with wide eyes and a thin face, to simply run. To go away. To leave that place, not look back, and go. For the Goblin King was ne'r.

Yet, his leaving (if it were he) feels more like uncomfortable abandonment rather than the relief I ought to be experiencing. Why did the owl go?

**Swan**_-**Mated for Life.**_

I make my way out of the wood for the final time to be face again with the lake. Ahead I hear slight crashes. Circles begin to surface the water as drops plummet down—rain has begun. Merely sprinkles, I don't feel much pressure to go. My journey is over-seven feathers are in my grasp. My task has been completely. So now-what?

No answer forth coming, I settle onto one of the many boulders that rest on the lakeside to watch the free-falling drops. Like tiny crystals, they shimmer as they decent, then hit with soft noise the top of the waves, joining others in the lake. Entranced, I hold out one hand to let beads collect on my skin. When I turn my limb, they slide off, creating lazy lines of wetness.

Mist begins to take the scene. I cannot see more than several dozen feet beyond my face. The woods have disappear, making it seem as though the lake and myself are in a world all our own. As though we are removed from time to drift, alone. It is peaceful. This is what I had sought in coming here.

From my pocket, I pull out the seven feathers, spreading them out like a fan. Black, white, blue-green, red, sky, red, striped tan. A rainbow of beauty. Ignoring my inner voice (which sounds much like Karen) whimpering of how birds carry disease, I stroke the hairs of each piece, marveling at their colour, their task is done. Why has he not come to me?

A small sound halts my reverie. Head bowed, the swan sails toward me from the pelted water. I stand, feathers still in hand.

The creature stops just before the water's edge. Waiting. That elegant neck extends, and now it stares with liquid eyes.

"My quarry." I offer forth the seven quills. "I found seven. Tell him I am finished."

I lay the plumes down in the wet grass.

"I don't need any sort of…reward." I say aloud, casting my gaze around for…something. "Or my dreams, or anything. The journey was enough."

No reply.

The swan carefully turns its neck around to pluck a single quill from its back, laying it on the water. I stare, uncertain. I did not even know birds could do that.

"But…this is eight. Eight?"

Again, no answer is coming. The swan moves away, back toward the center of the lake. Half way there, it is hidden by mist.

I dart forward to claim the final feather. It is not unlike the other the swan first gave me. I stroke the vane, wondering again where its fellows were.

Swans are known for their mating habits. Like humans, they mate for life. When one in the partnership perishes, the other will mourn, like a human. They will not eat, nor take up another mate, and die shortly after the other's death. I had a grandfather who did that, when my grandmother died. He sat, silent, for days, until slipping into a peaceful sleep and passing on himself.

Has this one recently lost his mate? Or was she hiding back, tending to little ones? I had seen their broods before—fat puff balls of grey, squeaking and tumbling around puddles.

What is this feather trying to say? Whose trick is this? Whose is the face I cannot see in this misty park?

"A king," I begin softly. "My villain…but not. For a villain must be a bringer of death and misfortune, true, but they must not also be kind, and gentle, as dove. A villain might be vain, yes, and filled with beauty, but fierce in nature. And they might be quick to anger, childish, but also filled with wisdom, and passion, and—and—does that make them a point of evil? A knave? Or, simply…a man, with many parts?"

"For what is a character, but many facets to make a whole gem?" I continue. "No one is simply described in one adjective."

There is not a sound throughout the clearing. I sigh. "Oh, what does this mean?"

"It means you have won."

I turn to find him sitting on my boulder. Seven feathers lay in his outstretched hand, palm flat. Instinctually, I cross to place the eight, the final quill, alongside the others. But I pause, and draw it back to my chest, spinning it between my fingers.

He is ethereal. The hair is wild, wind-swept, strands of long silver-gold. As though he has been touched by the moon, bathed in light. He is dress in his feathery cloak of off-white. Black breeches sit tight on his tights. A billowy poet's shirt of gentle sage shows a peek of bare chest. And there on his crown, a different touch, sits a circlet of woven silver. He surely must be a dream. But not one of mine.

"What are my winnings, sir?" I ask, tilting my face upwards. My words are playful, and I sway, holding out the hem of my tunic. "A cloak of gold? A prince? Or a wish?"

"Do not mock." He warns me mildly. "You played the game, after all."

I stop all motion, sobering. "That is true. But I still do not see—see the translations of the task. I found your feathers, yes, but to what end?"

Mismatched eyes find my own, holding me still intensely. "I believe you already know."

"No, Goblin King, I fear I do not."

"Allow me to elaborate." He plucks up the feather of night. "Misfortune, but wit."

The feather of white. "Ferocity, partnered with wicked loveliness. Cruelty, hidden within beauty."

The feather of green-blue, longest of the lot. "Vanity, together with princely dignity. Extravagance. Brightness."

Then the striped quill of sky. "Childish, quick anger, loudness."

"Paired with passion," For the scarlet feather.

The grey slip. "But countered with gentleness, kindness."

Next, the tan lines of the owl. "Wisdom. Silence when there ought be noise. Keen senses."

And finally—

"Love," He said simply. "Love that holds until dying breath."

The feathers have been spread before me. The Goblin King stalks forward, offering my quarry once more. I can hear a pounding—my own heart, enraged into heavy beating.

I am breathless. "And all of this, it comes to?"

"The traits of a king. The particular traits of this king."

We are silent. He stares beyond me, to the lake, to its mists. I never take my eyes off him, a thousand questions burning in the back of my throat, like glowing coals. I wish to spit them out, but now doesn't seem the time. So, instead, I swallow many to keep one between my teeth. Finally I release it, and it soars like a sparrow from between my lips.

"You said I had won. What would I have gotten, if I lost?"

The King shrugs, never taking his gaze from the glassy water. The surface is now being marred by bigger, fast droplets. "Nothing. You would've gone home, returned to your dormitory in a few days, and lived out your life. No harm would have befallen you, just as the same if you were to ignore the challenge."

A peak of wind ripples his cloak, musses up his mane of glorious hair.

"Truly?" I ask.

He turns those mismatched orbs to me. "I am a man of my word, Sarah." That being said, he sits grandly upon the stone once more. He treats it like a throne, rather than a rock. "But come now, Sarah. You have won, not lost. Don't you want your prize?"

My knees tremble. "I do not know. Do I?"

He smirks, though his heart is not in it. "Let us not be coy. "

"So…my dreams. The life I want." My voice is hollow. "A college degree, my novel published, and a comfortable live."

Pained, the Goblin King shakes his head. "No, that cannot be what you want," He whispers. "Surely it is not so hard. They're your dreams, Sarah Williams. You know them."

Do I?

I focus my thoughts. "I…I truly do not know what I want." I say, honest. "A life of dreaming, of fairy-stories would have suited me fine long ago, but now-"

"You are all grown up." He hesitates. "Could it be, Sarah, that it is simpler than even that? What is it you _want?" _

"What is it you want, Goblin King?" I counter. The eyes flash.

He is suddenly stiff. "Nothing I could not have, if I but set my mind to it. But come now, it is you we are speaking of, not I. _Think!_"

A thousand images flicker over my mind's eye. Toby. Merlin. The Labyrinth. My dorm. Hoggle. Words, words of my novel. My quick sketch of Ara. The Goblin King. The birds, one after another. A floating crystal. My car, my bedroom. Dad. Mom. My music box, with the wind-up dancer. Ludo. A room of glass and bubbles. Masks. Lancelot. My roommate Jen, laughing. The Goblin King Karen, bent over her rose bushes. Toby, stumbling toward my car soon after I've pulled up to the house. The blue house my father bought after marrying Karen. Peaches. A white fairy-tale gown, with billowing sleeves. A thirteen-hour clock. The grandfather clock from the foyer. The Goblin King-

"I want—" I begin slowly. "—time. Time, so that I may know the Goblin King, who I have seen passing in my dreams. For, it is the Goblin King I should desire, if he will have me."

When I meet the glittering orbs, I know I have said exactly the right words this time. Though his smile is small, it is there, subtle.

"Granted."

**-XXX-**

**Thank you for reading! Please review! **


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